


Lose Control

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Great Hiatus, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Moriarty's Web, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is Not a Virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:17:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5579941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels like a burden; trapped in a rigged game that he cannot possibly win, too much for one man. Sherlock wants to stop the train, to get out, just for a little while; he wants to stand still.</p>
<p>But he’s not in control, not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lose Control

**Author's Note:**

> I am fascinated with the idea of Sherlock destroying Moriarty's web. They never really addressed in the show how hard a task it must have been for him. I wanted to explore his emotional response to an impossible situation, making human mistakes, where there is no room to do so. 
> 
> This is his struggle for meaning; for control.

 

He’s not entirely sure what it is that he’s doing anymore. The numbness set in somewhere after the fourth job, or rather; the fourth hit.

 

He walks through the criminal underworld shamelessly, working undercover, wading in, until even those who knew him before might hesitate in saying he hadn’t changed sides. His conscience is as clear and intact as it ever had been.

 

It’s a lie.

 

Some part of him soaks up the amorality like tar, choking his lungs with it, Sherlock has been doing this for far too long; living off cigarettes, black coffee and whatever is convenient.

 

He doesn’t taste the food he eats, sampling dishes from every corner of the world, but it’s all the same to him; a means to an end. Eating maintains his blood pressure, provides the necessary calories, the sustenance required to keep his body functioning through the next operation. He doesn’t have time to think, just grabs what he can, when he can.

 

He feels heavy at the prospect of living this way indefinitely, in filthy hovels, and pay-by-the-hour motels, never staying in one place too long. It would be so simple to just disappear; he could fade away into the background, lost in the chatter and movement of the world; never to be seen again.

 

Little would change as a result, there are few who would miss him, fewer still who have the knowledge that something even remains to be missed. It would hardly be a surprise, his odds were slim enough to begin with; no one would know, no one would question it.

 

The man is blonde, late twenties. Sherlock is at the bar for only one reason.

 

He’s young and a bit too innocent, not what Sherlock had set out to find, but he’s got dark blue eyes, a disarming smile, and is somewhat on the shorter side.

 

His motives are transparent, and he’s glad Mycroft can’t see him now, safe from the eyes of his scorn and judgment, but he still hears his voice, taunting him; _‘Oh how very telling, how quaint. Look at yourself; reduced to this, pining like a fool. It’s unbecoming of you, you are better than this.’_

Sherlock hates himself for how obvious he is, how boring. Such a blatant display of desperate sentiment disgusts him, it’s pathetic.

 

_‘So it should. This is ridiculous, brother mine; you should never let your heart rule your head._ ’ How low he has sunk.

 

His mood is dark, these last few months having been particularly bad, Moriarty’s network becoming wiser as to his movements; they know someone is hunting them now. The noose is tightening, the walls are closing in, and he’s desperately running out of time.

 

_‘You can still stop this Sherlock,’_ Mycroft reminds him, _‘there is work to be done, and you cannot afford to indulge, it will destroy you._ ’

 

He’s almost done, but he doesn’t know if he can finish it, for how much longer he will be able to elude them, to continue this way, it’s taxing on his body, and poison to his mind.

 

_‘Don’t be so dramatic.’_

 

He feels disenchanted, brimming with vitriol. He is disillusioned with the world, having seen nothing but the worst of what it has to offer, for what feels like an eternity. His old life no longer feels real, so alien to everything he knows now, like a distant dream; a fantasy.

 

So in wanting to stop, just for a moment, to think about something, _anything_ else, perhaps he over does it a bit.

 

But in the back of his mind there’s a small part of him that wants to lash out against his crusade, to set fire to his metaphorical _itinerary_ and reclaim some of his freedom; to rebel.

 

_‘You can’t give up now; not when you’re so close. For God’s sake, stop being so childish and focus!’_

 

It’s in his nature balk at responsibility, supervision or strict authoritative powers, but in this case, Mycroft is _not_ forcing anything upon him, he isn’t here, hasn’t the first idea as to where Sherlock is, or even how to find him.

 

He’s _not_ working for anyone else, he’s completely under his own power, he decides where he goes, he calls the shots; complete autonomy.

 

Logically he knows that he _chose_ this, and no one is _forcing_ him to do anything, there’s no excuse; he has no one he can blame or resist. This is all him.

 

But he’s not in control, not really.

 

He _has_ to do this, has to follow the plan, achieve the objective. He boarded a train hurtling into oblivion, and he cannot get off now, the consequences are too great.

 

It feels like a burden; trapped in a rigged game that he cannot possibly win, too much for one man. Sherlock wants to stop the train, to get out, just for a little while; he wants to stand still.

 

He can’t.

 

_‘I warned you; don’t get involved.’_

 

He’s angry; he wants to destroy something pure, to take out his helplessness on someone else. He wants to make it go away.

 

_‘Sherlock.’_

He ignores Mycroft’s warning. Vive la révolution.

 

He fucks the boy hard. It’s impersonal, and probably rougher than is called for, but there’s no request for him to stop, so he doesn’t care. It’s not his preferred role, topping is not usually his style, but it is the more aggressive approach, and that is exactly what he needs right now; to be in control.

 

Sherlock suspects that this is too violent for the younger man’s tastes, but he doesn’t seem to be complaining, and when he finally touches his neglected and presumably aching cock, the boy comes almost instantly.

 

It was satisfying, and Sherlock is trying to make the most of the peaceful afterglow, to soak up the quiet safety, the endorphins.

 

He hasn’t had nearly enough moments where he can pause for breath in the maelstrom of white noise that has become his life.

 

He wants to forget, he wants to close his eyes and pretend, to imagine that he is somewhere else, that the warm body beside him is someone else, he wants to lose himself in that fantasy.

 

But the kid won’t stop crowing, acting like it was the best sex of his life, and his voice is all wrong, he’s ruining everything.

 

_Shut. Up._

 

But it’s too late now, Sherlock can’t blind himself to the differences, can’t overlook all the details he’d hoped to ignore, masked by the flood of oxytocin.

 

The boy is too loud, too obnoxious, too young and insecure; naïve. His body is too slim, muscular where it should have been soft, smooth where it should be scarred, he’s not reassuring, and he’s not familiar; he’s not John.

_‘I told you so.’_

He grits his teeth in attempt to block out Mycroft and all his concerned condescension, but it won’t change the fact that he is right.

 

This was a bad idea, recklessly foolish, and he loathes his weakness.

 

He’d ignored all his subconscious attempts to prevent this, his mind resorting to using _Mycroft_ as the voice of reason, because Mycroft is always right, and now he’s made a mess of everything; he should have listened.

 

Sherlock regrets the biological flaw in human anatomy that is the absence of a mute button. If such a thing existed he’d slam it down and then tear it from the man’s skin entirely. He supposes that where this line of thinking could lead is a bit not good. There _are_ ways to make human beings shut up; more _permanent_ solutions, methods he has become well acquainted with.

 

He shakes himself out of it, abjectly horrified at his own thoughts. He has to remove himself from this situation.

 

The boy, whose name Sherlock hadn’t bothered to take in in the first place, has turned coy now, dropping heavy hints about future meetings in an irritating attempt at flirtation. Dear lord, the child is smitten, he must know this is not that kind of coupling?

 

He doesn’t care about the man’s _feelings_ of hurt and rejection, or even the aspect of having shamelessly used him, what did he expect, after a one night stand? But he does _care_.

 

Because there is a weighty feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, a terrible realisation; he worries about the possible ramifications of his slip, of his own actions; it had been horrendously selfish. He’d made a risk just interacting with the man; that alone is dangerous, for both of them.

 

Sherlock shuts him down fairly efficiently and his lover is disappointed; left wanting more. Perhaps he would run screaming if he’d really known what he was missing.

 

He dresses quickly, and leaves with little to no explanation, barely repressing the urge to bolt. He wants to run until he collapses, feet thundering on the pavement, heart pounding. He needs to put as much distance between himself and the boy as possible.

 

He knows he shouldn’t have left with any mystery in his departure, nothing that would draw interest or further inquiry, but he’d panicked, and now the boy is a liability, because he _was_ interested in the furtive stranger who had seduced him, even if only a little; he might wonder about him.

 

He wasn’t supposed to be intrigued, he wasn’t supposed to care; Sherlock hadn’t intended to leave any sort of impression at all. He’d wanted it to be an impersonal meeting, one without attachment; easily forgotten, but it hadn’t gone according to plan.

 

But it didn’t matter, because even if he _wasn’t_ curious, anyone might link him back to Sherlock; torture him for information he didn’t have. Sherlock’s movements could be tracked simply by them having been there together, he had a witness who placed him at the scene, proof of Sherlock’s presence in the city. He didn’t even need to know anything to be a problem.

 

The boy is an innocent party in all this, but he could still get both of them killed if Sherlock lets him go.

 

_'Casualty of war, brother mine.'_

 

No.

 

He needs to get away, because he can’t bring himself to do what needs to be done to erase any and all traces, what he logically knows he should do. But he _can’t_ , he can’t do it, for the same reason that he’d chosen him in the first place; he reminds him of John.

 

No one can know him; no one should _want_ to know him, not here and not anywhere. He cannot make connections, he does not dare, and now he’s gone and broken one of his most cardinal rules.

 

Any flicker of recognition, and a death warrant is sealed, by necessity, silence is paramount; any passing stranger could give him away. He’s avoided it until now, but it doesn’t matter in the end if they are innocent or not; he has no choice, he is the harbinger of death.

 

No one can know that he is alive.

 

He’s done terrible things. But this time, he is incapable of following through, he won’t kill a man whose only crime is to have the misfortune of knowing him, he doesn’t care how much it costs him, but…he _does_ care what it might cost John.

 

It’s almost enough to make him turn around; he’d vowed to do _anything_.

 

He struggles internally with himself.

 

If the boy does enough research he may discover who he really is, might even stumble across the truth by accident, and that leaves a potentially gaping hole in his cover. John might wind up dead with a bullet in his skull tomorrow…but he just can’t. He has to take the chance that nothing will come of it, he _has_ to.

 

It’s nauseating; the extent of his arrogance, he’s _failed_ ; one idiotic lapse in judgment, and they all could be dead; Him, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, John; _everyone_ , and because of _this?_

He stumbles down the nearest alley and vomits bile.

The risk is small but it’s _there_ , he cannot risk exposure, they could _die_ as a result, and yet he still can’t do it; he’s weak, he doesn’t have the stomach, and that’s why he’ll lose.

 

He hates this, what he has to do; this gruelling, terrible existence; an imperfect creature, forced to play God. He doesn’t want this power, to have to weigh this boy’s life against the potential leak, to know that every decision, every misstep he makes could bring about their deaths.

 

One wrong move, and it’s all over; he lives in fear of hearing his own name.

 

Killing is easy, but no one should have to die just for knowing the name Sherlock Holmes.

 

Sherlock never wanted to kill _anybody_ ; this is not his life, not his role. He _hates_ this. It’s tearing him apart.

 

‘ _Oh Sherlock.’_

 

It all comes back down to control, and he has absolutely no control over his existence, but; he does have a choice, and he can choose to save this boy’s life.

 

He runs.

 

~

 

He tells himself that it was the last time; that he can seek some relief elsewhere; he will not falter again, but he finds himself caught in a cycle of self-destruction and self-sabotage, spiralling down, bitter and angry.

 

How ironic to think that none of them thought him capable of such conscience, always pressuring him to do the _right thing_ ; when in fact, they'd be far better off if he _was_ the heartless machine they accused him of being. There was no margin for error, and in the end, the biggest threat to John won’t come from Moriarty’s henchmen; it will be Sherlock’s humanity, his own flawed existence.

 

Making the same mistake twice; how insufferably dull of him.

 

The next time that he indulges, it is an absolute disaster, and it nearly gets him killed, literally this time.

 

His flight lands in Brussels at 8pm, the target he is looking for is elusive, and all he has to go off is a blurry 10 year old CCTV shot. So some research is still required, but he’d had to leave Stockholm in a hurry so this seemed the next logical step.

 

He’s lost and untethered in yet another unfamiliar city, and again he has to start from scratch, going through the motions, following flimsy leads and running himself into the ground.

 

He knows no one, there is not a single familiar face, he has no support, and nothing to hold on to. Never in his life has he wanted Mycroft’s omniscient logic, Lestrade’s sturdy reliability, or John’s comforting hands as much as he does now.

 

There’s no one to watch his back. He can’t remember a time where there wasn’t someone trying to kill him.

 

He is so alone.

 

He wishes he had someone to tell him what he should do, to help share the burden of the responsibility that is sucking the life out of him.

 

He can’t help but notice how close he is to home, and he shakes that thought away as irrelevant; a distraction, it’s too soon, he can’t return yet, he needs to think.

 

He’s so close it makes him want to tear at his hair, the longing hurts more than being shot.

 

He knows that the man he is looking for frequents the clubbing scene, despite the fact that he is far too old for such activities. Sherlock decides to scope out the area to identify some of his likely haunts, it’s a week night so there is very little chance of running into him.

 

He has no luggage and nowhere to stay; it’s still 3 hours until dawn, so he has time to kill.

 

The first club tells him nothing, he’s frustrated, hasn’t slept in days, and thoughts of home are distracting him from his objective, it's cluttering up his hard drive, and he needs to get this out of his system before he can get back to work.

 

When he enters the second, all thoughts of gathering information are swept from his mind, he can afford a little stress relief, just a few hours; to clear his mind. He needs to stop the train, before it derails.

 

He picks up the first man he sees, and the alcohol might have been a factor, or more likely it was the two lines of coke he did in the bathroom, but it may just have been the unluckiest decision of his life.

 

He doesn’t take a moment to ponder why he may have subconsciously chosen this person, this _specific_ person. He’d thought it was random, never thought it possible in his distraction that his mind might have seen something he hadn’t.

 

He’s so tired; he just wants to forget, to find solace in a stranger’s arms, some semblance of comfort.

 

He doesn’t even notice until he’s in bed with the man, which is an unforgivable slip, but the cocaine has the effect of heightening his senses, and soon he starts to see all the little details.

 

He’s older, he’s wearing contacts, not glasses, he’s clean shaven, there are highlights in his hair, and there is a somewhat unfortunate rhinoplastic surgery at play, but it’s unmistakably him. _Sherlock is kissing his target_.

 

He freezes, it could either be a combination of his response and the poorly concealed bullet scar he picked up in New-Delhi, or maybe the man somehow recognises his face, he’s not sure what it is that finally gives him away, but in the end it doesn’t matter.

 

He knows that Sherlock means to kill him.

 

It could have been a ploy. He was so obtuse that the man might have known who he was all along and Sherlock would have been completely oblivious. He’d put everything in jeopardy over something so frivolously pedestrian a _quick shag_.

 

_For the second time._

 

He’s caught by surprise at the speed of thick hands wrapping themselves around his throat. His brain had been disengaged from work, he’d allowed himself to relax, he hadn’t been expecting this, and suddenly; he’s fighting for his life.

 

He barely manages to throw off his assailant with a knee to the solar plexus, and by the time he’s managed to recover enough to roll off the bed, a knife has been pulled.

 

He dodges, taking a cut to his side from a well-timed swing, narrowly avoiding his right kidney. They fight frantically, circling one another, fuelled by self-preservation, adrenaline singing through their veins.

 

There can only be one ending, the final problem; someone has to die.

 

His opponent lunges, and he manages to wrap both of his hands around the sheath, shifting the balance, and they struggle for control over the weapon, pushing it backwards and forwards until Sherlock finally overpowers him, and forces the knife home between his third and fourth rib.

 

They crash to the floor, Sherlock holding the blade firmly as he gurgles and kicks; it’s messy and violent. He stabs him twice more blindly for insurance, blood spurting across his neck and face, until he is satisfied that the man is well and truly dead.

 

Scrabbling away from the dead man, he pants and gasps, standing shakily; mind stunned into silence.

 

Now the panic sets in hard, and he whirls around, taking in the state of the room; he’s injured, covered in blood, and his DNA is _everywhere_.

 

“Oh god; nonono.”

 

This wasn’t supposed to happen, and he stumbles; blood itching on his palms as he searches the house for cleaning utensils.

 

He’s got to stop himself from going into shock; he grits his teeth, pressing down hard on his side; _pain_ ; clarity.

 

_‘Detach yourself and concentrate; you have precious little time, what are your options?’_

 

Using an accelerant is out; it would be the _simplest_ solution, but the apartment in on the fourth floor of a six storey apartment block, so he can’t burn it down, he’s not that heartless.

 

Flooding was too slow, it wasn’t guaranteed…and it would draw far too much attention, it was a terrible idea, god why can’t he _think_?

 

_‘Get it together; what are you going to do with the body?’_

 

No point disposing of it; too risky, there’s too high a chance of being caught, plus it can still easily be linked to the scene of the crime. Right, so the body stays in the flat; good. What else?

 

Desperation spurs him into action, and he knows he’ll undoubtedly do a shoddy job in his current state, but he has to do _something_.

 

He painstakingly drags the body into the ensuite, struggling to lift the man’s girth up and into the bathtub, he’s heavy, and by the time the bath is filled with cold water, and body soaking; he’s drenched with sweat.

 

He gathers both their clothes and strips the sheets off the bed, shoving them into a duffel bag, then, thinking twice, he empties half a bottle of vinegar on top as well.

 

He scrubs the floor clean of his blood with bleach, not bothering much with that of the dead man’s; the body being evidence enough to render that point moot, and madly vacuums up as many hair and particulates as he can find.

 

He then empties the tub and pours bleach over the face, hair, and down the throat to remove any of his sweat or saliva that remains.

 

He treats the gash on his side as best he can and showers extensively, dressing in the dead man’s clothes.

 

His last step is to refill the bath with cold water, and throw in the entire contents of the freezer, to ensure that the body keeps for as long as possible, buying him time to get out of the country.

 

After burning the duffel bag in a skip across town, Sherlock gets on the next flight to Moscow.

 

~

 

Sherlock is still in Moscow four days later, when the numbness finally wears off.

 

He goes back to his tiny one bedroom flat and double bolts the door. Siting on the bare wood floor, he stares blankly at the evidence-come-strategy wall, shivering with the cold. The damn heating is dodgy, everything in the building is falling to bits, and it’s so cold he can see his breath in the air.

 

He scrambles for his smokes, but his shaking hands won’t seem to hold the lighter steady, so he hurls them angrily across the room. They make an unsatisfyingly weak thud against the peeling wallpaper, and drop to the floor, lighter skittering away under the cheap pull-out bed.

 

It doesn’t help.

 

He can’t seem to focus on the wall, can’t see the next step, can’t plan his next move, the thoughts just won’t come. He can’t do _anything_ , he can barely move; paralysed with fear and despair. His eyes are getting blurry; he wants to go _home_.

 

He can’t take it, he can’t do this anymore; he’s falling apart.

 

The shaking intensifies, and it’s got nothing to do with the cold; he curls his legs into him and wraps his arms around his knees as undignified sobbing noises rip through him. He feels like a child, hyperventilating with hitching breath, but even the Mycroft in his subconscious won’t help him now; no one is coming. He cries harder than he ever has in his life.

 

Head aching and too tired to drag himself up onto the stained mattress, he slumps against the wall, tears falling softly until sleep finally drags him under.

 

He dreams he’s an angel, with magnificent wings, soaring above the heavens. Moriarty’s great black fist reaches up through the clouds and ensnares him.

 

He is pulled screaming, downwards through the muck, oil saturating the feathers of his wings until they are stained black with its heaviness.

 

Moriarty’s crazed grin dances before his eyes, and he struggles desperately, but his wings are too sluggish from the oil; a dead weight, dragging him down. Like a child with a magnify glass, burning an ant, Moriarty gleefully lights a match and all Sherlock’s beautiful wings go up in flames, burning him alive.

 

Singed feathers shower down on him like ash from an erupting volcano, and he watches helplessly as all that is good in him dissolves into nothing.

 

He falls to his knees and sobs, hopelessly gathering all the ruined feathers, clutching them to him, grieving for his loss. They fall apart, turning to dust in his hands; he’s not on the side of the angels anymore.

 

_‘No. You’re not. You’re me, you’re_ me _!’_

Sherlock jolts awake, joints aching, body punishing him for having slept on the floor, and burning with fever from wounds unattended.

 

He’s getting careless, and it has to stop, he might die, but he doesn’t care about that. John always wanted him to take better care of himself, but it’s John’s turn now, taking care of him is the priority; Sherlock can wait.

 

He must finish this.

 

So he does what he knows; he picks himself up and he runs; he won’t stop until he’s back in London, with John at his side, for real this time.

 

He will run until it kills him.

 

As if he ever had any other choice.

 

 


End file.
